Devious - Lisa Jackson [111]
“Will do.”
“Thanks. I’ll get back to you later about the relatives.”
He hung up and stared at the phone a second, then called the number he had for the SFPD and asked for Joan Delmonte. Just in case. There was a log of all the calls that came into the department, but he wanted to hear the woman’s voice, to convince himself that he wasn’t being played.
“Delmonte,” the same woman answered after he’d gone through an operator.
“Montoya, NOPD, just thought you might want my cell number.”
“Sure.” She laughed, deep and throaty that ended with a smoker’s cough. “Don’t kid a kidder, Montoya. We both know why you called. Just in case I was some nutcase yanking your chain. Sorry to disappoint. I’m the real McCoy. But give me that number anyway.”
He rattled it off and hung up.
Zaroster appeared in his doorway. “Next of kin for Asteria McClellan has been notified, and the press is all over the story.”
“Tell them—”
“I know, I know. To talk to the public information officer. Sinclaire’s preparing a statement.”
“Good.”
“Won’t stop the likes of Brenda Convoy.”
Montoya scowled. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.” He felt the electricity crackling within the department, the second homicide at St. Marguerite’s so quickly on the heels of the first creating a newfound urgency. Nerves were strung tight, and no doubt the Feds would be calling.
So what was the connection between the two victims, other than the obvious that they were two novices at St. Marguerite’s Convent here in New Orleans? Were they close? Closer than other members of the cloister? He ran a hand around his face, felt the beard stubble surrounding his goatee. His eyes burned.
He finished his cup of coffee and turned toward his computer monitor again where he’d put up the two pictures of the victims on the screen. Both lying supine, rosaries clutched, dressed in ancient bridal dresses, with the distinctive pattern of blood dropped around the necklines.
Both scenes were staged.
The altar cloth on the first placed by the mother superior.
One in the chapel, under the looming figure of Christ upon the cross, the other in a cemetery, near a tomb where a sculpted angel rose high into the night sky.
Was there more of a link between the two victims?
Why were they culled out of the habited flock?
“Come on,” he said, as if the two images on the computer could hear him and talk. “Come on.”
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Bentz appear in the doorway. His partner held his favorite old coffee cup in one hand and a plastic ziplock bag in the other. Inside the bag, a book was visible. “We’ve got company,” Bentz announced. He looked ragged around the edges, freshly showered, his hair still wet, but the creases near the corners of his eyes more pronounced.
“Hopefully not a reporter.”
“Nope. Better. Vic one’s sister and her husband. They brought us a present.” He handed Montoya the plastic bag.
“What’s this?” Montoya asked, but he knew. Before Bentz told him, he realized he was looking at Camille Renard’s diary.
“The book we’ve been looking for.”
“Where the hell was it?”
“St. Elsinore’s. In her locker or cubby or whatever. The husband lifted it yesterday.”
“He did what? Oh, for the love of God, what an idiot.” Outraged, Montoya was on his feet, the bag still in his hand. “What the hell was he thinking? He should have just left things alone, called and let us handle it. Now there’s no evidence chain—we can’t prove that someone else didn’t get a hold of the diary since it was put in the locker.” Montoya was furious. Fuming. The frustration of the case that had been building inside exploded white-hot. “A defense attorney will have a heyday with this. Even if Slade Houston swears it was with him from the moment he pulled it out of St. Elsinore’s, it creates doubt, no police record. Shit!” He kicked his chair back to the desk. “He probably contaminated evidence and compromised the whole damned case.” Raking fingers through his hair, he forced himself to calm a bit. “Where are they?”
“Interrogation room one.”
“Let’s go!” Hauling